


Little Shop of Horrorterrors

by nuclearwinter



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Awkward Boners, Botany, Dubious Consent, Dubious Consentacles, Eventual Happy Ending, Forced Orgasm, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, M/M, Other, Overstimulation, Plant sex, Plants, Reconciliation, Sex Pollen, Sounding, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles, awkward helping hand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-16 00:58:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8080531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nuclearwinter/pseuds/nuclearwinter
Summary: Life is hard enough when you don't know where you stand with your ex, until Dirk discovers something on Hellmurder Island that wants to make his life even harder (pun intended).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is not by me: it is an *:・ﾟ✧ANONYMOUS GUEST SUBMISSION*:・ﾟ✧ that I am hosting on my AO3 because I am a smut enabler. I know you will thank me ;) Credit for the idea also goes to the fine folks of the Discord chat.

It's OK, you've got this. Everything is totally, 100% under control, because you are Dirk Strider and Dirk Strider doesn't let shit like this happen without an escape plan so airtight it could keep your sense of self-loathing fresh for a literal eternity.

You squirm a little, feeling the weirdly slick tendrils of the plant tense and tighten around your wrists, your ankles, your neck, and wonder if maybe the time has come to admit that you're completely and utterly boned.

Of course, given the choice, you'd rather let this thing strangle you to death than call for help...but that hardly seems fair to Jake.

Jake, who finally tracked you down and rooted you out of your can-bedroom, who made the tentative overtures of renewed friendship that you were too chickenshit scared to make.

Jake, who you can barely stand to look at because looking at him makes you want to touch him, to feel him, to give yourself to him like you tried to before, back when you wrapped yourself up with a fucking bow and tried to convince him it was Christmas in July.

Jake, who will be the one to find your discarded, mutilated body when this thing realizes it can't actually kill you. Just because dying isn't permanent these days doesn't mean it doesn't sting like a bitch. It doesn't mean you don't get nightmares.

You left him silently watching a movie, the sound turned up above the howls and shrieks of the island fauna, because you could tell he needed some breathing room but was too fucking polite to ask. It must have been awkward for him, having you filling his personal space like a bad smell, so you'd done the honorable thing and excused yourself. Hellmurder island has a fine selection of things for you to work out your tension on, after all, and if you happened to find your way to a transportalizer that led straight out of Jake English's life, then maybe that was for the best.

The island's population of lusii seems to have taken a hit when Jade warped the island across from the dead, empty lands of LOMAX. Either that or you looked so similar to your old robot that everything was terrified of you. Your walk was peaceful, reflective...not what you had in mind at all. It had almost been a relief when a whip-like tendril had coiled itself around your lower calf and tugged you sharply off your feet. It had parted like butter under your sword, the rest of it withdrawing into an enormous tangle of blue vines. You're no expert on plant life, having grown up in a concrete box in the middle of a dead ocean, but you're pretty sure you've never seen a plant that fucking colour before.

Nor have you ever seen one that moved like this. It's fast, really fucking fast, and even flashstepping can't save you when it gets a tendril around your sword hand and snakes another around your neck. Your head throbs as it squeezes, and you fight the urge to panic. Numb fingers can't grip your sword any longer, and without it you're suddenly powerless.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

Whatever this thing is it's not fucking around, wrapping more and more of those blue, alien looking tendrils around you until even struggling seems pointless. When one brushes across your face you realize it's...slimy. Or, not slimy so much as _slick_.

It leaves a trail across your skin, which immediately starts to feel odd, a kind of warm tingling like one of those...like one of those fancy lubes you found tucked away in the back of one of your apartment's closets...

...Oh no. No fucking way.

No, no this can't be happening. The thing is still holding you, restraining you, but the movements of its tendrils have shifted, changed into something more like a caress. They're everywhere now, rubbing themselves over the bare skin of your shoulders and arms, plucking at the fabric of your vest and pants. You squirm, trying to escape from the warm sensation of it sliding those feelers up under your shirt, painting you with that stuff that makes you feel like your skin is on fire. It pauses, curling tentatively around a nipple when it finds one, and holy shit does that feel...it feels...fuck, it feels incredible.

You're succumbing to whatever chemical is coming from the creature, you know you are, because there's no way you'd ever let anything that wasn't Jake English (in your most cringeworthy fantasies) rip your shirt open at the seams like that until it hangs from you in tatters. More of the tendrils crowd you, rubbing and rolling across your chest, down your back, holding you firm while working the tension out of your muscles. Dimly, you wonder what the fucking point is of making you feel like this, whether this is all just a prelude to it eating your willing flesh alive. You kind of don't care. Whatever is in the fluid coating your upper body feels like heaven, like you could transcend reality through if only something would touch your rock-hard dick. There is nothing about this that should have caused THAT, but nonetheless. If something doesn't touch you soon you're going to fucking die. Those loud, high moaning noises definitely aren't coming from you, can't be coming from you, because never in your life have you ever made those sounds.

The fly of your jeans seems to be confusing it, and at this point you'd fucking help if it didn't have your hands bound above your head. You dazedly thank your paradoxical genes for your lack of hips and ass when it gets bored of trying to push underneath your waistband and just pulls the whole lot completely off, boxers and all. Never has being naked felt so outrageously good as when what feels like a hundred sliding appendages are coating you liberally in something that makes you harder than you've ever been in your life.

You're barer than the day you were born, back arched with a desperate desire to get something to touch you, because for all it skipped the foreplay altogether this fucking plant hasn't laid a single feeler on your junk. Everything is too hot, too sensitive, and your skin feels three sizes too small. You almost whimper with relief when it flips you onto your stomach, still suspended in midair, and you feel the warmth of several somethings probing at your ass and wrapping around your dick.

The tendrils are narrow and mercifully tapered at the ends, which is a good job because this plant is not from a species that comprehends prep. At least three of those things start burrowing their way inside you, twisting and writhing. Your scream is half oversensitivity and half ecstasy, because having that warm tingly stuff inside of you is like the fourth of July inside your ass. The thing works you like a goddamned puppet, drawing moans from your lips that send flocks of fairy bulls into the air for meters around you. You sound like a fucking pornstar, like you're having your soul sucked out through your dick. Unfortunately, there’s not a single atom of you that gives a shit about that right now. There’s a burning, aching sensation filling your lower body and if it doesn’t stop soon you’ll probably die here, willingly consumed by the fire.

When you finally do come, you almost black out. Hell, maybe you do pass out, because time fuzzes and blurs as your brain fills with endorphins, your back arches painfully and you hear the sound of your jizz splattering across the leaves below you. With your body pumped full of enough plant aphrodisiac to keep you hard into next week, the orgasm is like nothing you’ve ever felt. It’s not so much in your dick as fucking everywhere, a whole-body rush of heat that sends aftershocks rocking through you from your toes to the tingling roots of your scalp. It’s fire and pleasure and the sensation of being filled and held as you shake yourself to pieces. It’s all too much; your heart is going to burst, the pulse hammering in your ears until it’s a solid thrum. This is it, you’re going to die. You’re going to come yourself to death.

Somehow, you always knew it would end this way.

Or, at the very least, AR warned you it would.

It takes a few minutes of boneless panting before you realize you can actually think again, if only through a warm, drugged up haze. You’re aware of being Dirk Strider, at least. The pervasive self-loathing is definitely back, and it’s not exactly helped by being strung up in the air, sticky and naked in the middle of a jungle. There’s also still quite a lot of plant up your ass, lazily moving in a sinuous pattern that makes you feel a little sick. The tendrils holding you haven’t slackened a fraction of an inch, and struggling has about as much effect as it did before. That is to say, none whatsoever, with the added caveat that this time around you feel like you’ve dislocated every joint in your body. You’re trapped, which should not be as arousing as it is.

Your vision is blurred, but as the plant flips you onto your back you can hardly miss the huge, pendulous bulk of a colossal flower blooming above you. The petals are a sickly yellow, but the pollen raining down on you in drifts is blood red. It’s in your mouth, in your eyes, suffocating you with a fragrance that screams sex directly to a primal part of your brain. When you start literally choking on it, the plant generously flips you back over so that you can clear your airways. Or, at least, you assume that’s why. Glancing downward, you can see your spunk pooling at the bottom of a suspiciously bowl-shaped leaf, collecting in a channel that leads directly to the fleshy centre of the mass of tendrils. Puzzle pieces fall into place through the molasses of your brain, and you whine.

It’s so fucking obvious. Why would something evolve an auto-fuck function if it wasn’t interested in the product of the fucking? You’re hooked up to the prostate milking-machine, as helpless as a piece of livestock. This thing wants full-fat Dirk Strider and it’s not gonna stop until the supply runs out.

You’re so boned.

You wonder whether you’ll die of thirst or of refractory period denial. Your money would be on the latter, because after your brief respite the merciless bastard of a plant is back at it again, writhing against your prostate and sliding sinfully over your dick. It shouldn’t be possible to be aroused again so soon, but you’re already slipping back under. The fucktrance brought on by the plant’s secretions is probably a blessing, and you’re almost completely back on board the orgasm train when you hear the unmistakeable sound of someone clearing their throat.

“Um…”

It’s Jake. Of course it’s Jake, he’s the only other human for thousands of miles in any direction.

You’re suddenly very aware of the fact that you’re naked, shades-less, and having your brains fucked out by a jungle monstrosity. To make matters worse, the boy you were maybe sort of hoping to date is trying and failing not to stare at you with the widest eyes you’ve ever seen.

This is awful, but the burning shame is lost amid the sensation of being out of your mind on pheromones. Right now, even having Jake’s gaze on you is enough to make your dick jump, and you would really, really prefer to replace it with his hands. Or preferably all of him, naked and sweaty and smelling of the jungle that surrounds you. A tiny part of your brain screams that this is so incredibly fucked up, that you’re barely on speaking terms, but that part dies a merciful death when Jake bites his lip and finally tears his eyes away. He’s so fucking hot when he blushes like that.

“...Sup.” you reply, forcing yourself not to scream Jake’s name instead. The damn plant is pressing hard against your prostate, rippling those tentacles in a punishing rhythm, and it’s a truly heroic feat that you can speak at all. Your voice cracks into a desperate, breathless moan at the end of the word, but it’s the best you can do.

It’ll have to be good enough, because no matter what happens you’re not about to lose your cool in front of Jake English. You've got this. Everything is totally, 100% under control.


	2. Chapter 2

Holy moly, this is _not_ what you expected to find when you went out looking for Dirk. Sitting on the sofa and watching Armageddon on your own had lost its zest after a while, after the empty space where Dirk had been expanded to fill the entire room. The island never felt empty when it was just you and Brobot, but having Dirk here but _not here_ made it feel practically desolate. Busying yourself by picking through the piles of deadly firearms that you pushed to the corners to make room for Dirk’s camp bed only made things worse. Dirk was here, somewhere, deliberately avoiding you.

You feel like a complete cad when you remember you did the same to him, once upon a time.

Even if Strider was as deadly as any weapon in your collection, there were still things out there that were too big for a blade to take down. Dirk didn’t have the dubious benefit of a childhood spent avoiding being sat on, stepped on, charged, eaten or otherwise inconvenienced by the island’s beasts. He grew up in a tiny apartment filled with futuristic gizmos and had never even seen grass until a few short months ago. Maybe letting him out on his own wasn’t such a blinder of an idea after all.

You’d tugged on your boots, slung a few bottles of water into your sylladex, and set out after him. Tracking him wasn’t exactly hard. Dirk might be a wafer of pure muscle but he’s heavy enough to leave footprints, and the trail of angrily decapitated foliage was also a subtle clue.

It’s about 30 minutes before you hear him. At first you’re not even sure it’s him, because those drawn out cries sound nothing like the Dirk Strider you know. The first scream sets your nerves jangling with panic, because Dirk is obviously in some kind of serious fucking difficulty. You start to run, leaping over fallen trees and jutting roots while avoiding pats of centaur manure large enough to lose a knee-length boot in. It’s difficult to concentrate on Dirk’s cries when you’re trying not to go arse over teakettle in the middle of a forest, especially when your pulse is jackhammering in your ears. He could be hurt, he could be _in danger_ , and you let him just wander out into the most dangerous environment on the goshdarned planet.

The worry drives you faster, toward the source of what are now definitely screams. You mentally kick yourself with each and every step, but nothing prepares you for how awful you feel when you finally do find him.

Oh no…so that’s what that blasted weed does if you let it get ahold of you.

Dirk is...Dirk is being held by that thing, wrapped securely at the wrists and neck and supported by a sort of harness of writhing tendrils. Even though his skin is painted with something red and sticky (not blood, thankfully, you wish you didn’t know what that looked like) and those _things_ are shimmying across it like nobody’s business, you can tell he’s completely naked. Not only that, but his _shades are off_. The plant must have removed everything it couldn’t digest, getting ready to crush him into a paste and swallow him whole! Your chest fills with panic and fury as those tentacles squeeze at him; from the looks of the way his chest is heaving he can barely breathe, and you’ll be damned if you’re going to lose your...best friend...to a murderous plant with a taste for human flesh!

Yes. You should get your arse in gear and save him before it’s too late! Now is not the time to be chasing patches of bare Strider with your eyes, no matter how tempting it is.

Of course, just as you’re about to draw your pistols and fill whatever part of the plant seems the most vital with the sting of hot lead, Dirk makes another one of those loud whining sounds and everything suddenly... _shifts_.

That, you know, was not a cry of pain. You’ve heard noises like those from Dirk before, on one particularly memorable occasion. What you haven’t heard is the desperation in his voice, the longing, the aching need for release. Dirk’s back muscles are pulled taught, his face contorted with more emotion than you ever managed to wring out of him, but there is no way in hell that was a cry of pain.

Dirk is a stone’s throw away from coming (if you’re any judge of these things), rolling his hips against the sliding tendrils holding him in place, and you wish the ground would swallow you up. You’re a fucking idiot, English. Re-examining the scene with your detective’s hat on, it’s easy to see that Dirk clearly has a mass of writhing planticles shoved so far into his ass it’s a wonder they aren’t coming out of his mouth. More of them are sliding around his dick, spiraling from root to tip with a pulsating rhythm. That must feel...well, it looks like it’s the cat’s fucking whiskers from here, although you won’t ever be owning up to contemplating plant-fuckery as a recreational pastime. No siree.

 _Nice one_ , Jake, you berate yourself, _top class deduction work, as usual_.

But, oh, holy fucking mackerel, is Dirk’s mouth busy not being full. He’s practically screaming with every breath now, a hoarse noise you’ve certainly never head. When he does finally come, his hips snapping forward and his head thrown back obscenely far, you are aware of the fact that you’re standing silently and watching your good friend and all-around best bro shudder to pieces and spill himself onto the forest floor with a sob.

What a sterling example of friendship. You want to smack yourself around the head.

How, exactly, does one call attention to oneself after watching something like that? Your mouth flaps dumbly as your face turns beet red. Dirk never liked you looking at him when he was heaving against your mattress, and he sure as fucking christmas isn’t going to want you seeing him like this. Breaking it to Dirk takes a backseat when a sneaky little tendril wraps itself around your ankle, and you hop backward sharpish and yank at the damn thing until it lets go. The plant’s feelers are slippery, and it’s surprisingly easy to get away from it, provided only one gets the drop on you. Poor Dirk must have been..uh..bum-rushed, so to speak.

While you were dealing with your own narrow brush with tentacle-fuckery, the thing seems to be busy covering every inch of Dirk with some disgusting-looking pollen. His coughs light something up inside you, an indignant rage to be precise, because he sounds so _helpless._ It’s not a word you ever expected to use to describe Dirk.

Clearing your throat is like forcing a needle into your eye, and you have to do it three dadblasted times before Dirk eventually notices you. He freezes solid, staring at you with saucer-eyes, but his pupils are blown so wide that the delicious amber in them has almost disappeared. A second later, the plant does something that sends a whole-body shudder through him, curling his toes and stealing his breath, and you realize he’s as high as a motherfucking rocketship. That stuff must be some kind of aphrodisiac, something to prevent prey from struggling. Even though you know he’s away with the fairies, you still feel guilty at admiring how absolutely goddamn gorgeous he looks. It makes it awfully difficult to speak to him.

“Um…”

You should have expected his reply, really.

“Sup.”

He chokes it out, his voice escalating into a moan at the end and _holy shit you want to talk to him more, hear more of him desperately straining against pleasure._ Your face feels hot, but it’s got nothing on him. Gadsbudlikins! This is all too much for your poor shorts to bear, because right now they’re more tent than clothing.

“So…” you begin.

“Nngh...ah...”

Dirk’s noises have turned quiet now, but somehow it’s even more depraved to see him trying not to show how far gone he is. And boy howdy is Dirk in pieces right now. You want to gather him up and slowly slot him back together...maybe if you’re really lucky he’ll let you take him apart again later. Straightening your back, you force all of your words out in one go, because the longer he stares at you like that, the more likely it is you’ll jump right in beside him.

“OKAY SO it hasn’t escaped my eagle eye that you seem to be in a bit of a pickle, Strider, namely that there’s a plant with its fondling appendages rammed right up your arse, and I wondered if, um, maybe you’d like some, uh, help with that?”

“Very...astute, Jake.” He replies, breathing out your name instead of saying it. Good god that’s hot. “A little help...would be...appreciated...s’long as it’s not...too much trouble.”

“Well, it’s no trouble, I’m happy to lend a helping hand. Uh...I mean, what kind of gent would I be if I didn;t help out my best buddy in his hour of need?”

Dirk snorts a quiet laugh that immediately becomes a breathy series of swearwords as a narrow tendril probes into...well…into somewhere you’re pretty sure a probe of any kind shouldn’t go. At least not without asking permission first, goddamn it! The head of his cock swells bright red as the tip worms its way down inside, and Dirk groans low and filthy when it starts to squeeze the shaft as well. You need to get him out of there before it starts putting tendrils down his throat as well, because his chest is heaving fit to burst as it is.

Your own collar is feeling pretty tight. The demon bush is really upping its game now, pounding into his ass until he’s whimpering and begging for release. With the tendrils wrapped so tight around his dick and that evil little one shoved down inside it, you’re not sure he even _can_ come like this. It must be torture, but you know from the topics Dirk carefully avoided talking about when you were together that it’s probably the sort of torture he’s very much enjoying. And, as sick as it is, you really are too. You never got to see him like this, never got to do this to him. Somehow that doesn’t seem fair. From now on, you’re going to have to insist that Strider open up to you more. It’s the only way you’re going to learn how to make him feel the way he deserves, after all.

Oh. Yes. That’s right. You’re supposed to be saving him, remember? Not imagining him making _that_ face or _that_ noise with your hands and lips all over him. He probably wouldn’t even want that, not after the mess you made of things last time. Jesus christ, English, you’ve got a job to do, and that’s _all_ you’re going to do.

Actually getting him out is quite a pickle, however, because if you get any closer to that thing it’s going to have it’s bushy little fingers down your shorts before you can say “jumping Jehoshaphat!” Shooting it is out of the question, because how the fuck do you shoot something with no discernable vital organs? And besides, if you did hit it, a thousand movie effects tell you that it would probably writhe and thrash like nobody’s business. You really don’t want to see what would happen to Dirk in those circumstances. No, if you’re going to free him it’s going to have to be with a blade of some kind, and luckily for you there’s an excellent candidate lying abandoned on the forest floor.

The Katana is buried in a nest of coiled tendrils, but you give them a few good hard kicks with your boot and pull it backward with your heel until you can pick it up without fear of it trapping your hands. You flail wildly at the nearest tendril that wants to try some funny business, and three feet of severed tentacle thumps to the floor. It wiggles for a few seconds, but after that it’s as dead as a doornail. Getting Dirk out with this should be a piece of cake.

When you look up, you realize Dirk’s noises have gotten quieter, more subdued. Everything is still, save for a few tendrils prodding at the place where you just delivered your blow. Slowly, every single one that isn’t currently occupied with fucking the brains out of your best friend turns, until all of them are facing you.

Before, the plant’s focus was on Dirk, but now...now you’ve gone and done something stupid.

Now you’ve made it _angry._


	3. Chapter 3

As it turns out, having a katana and _using_ a katana are two very different things. Your specibus is for guns, goddamnit, not this unwieldy length of metal. Swinging it around like a chump severs a few questing planticles, but you almost lose a toe in the process. After that, you stick to stamping down hard on the ones on the ground. You’re quite attached to your appendages, both literally and figuratively.

You’re doing OK, hanging in there, but when one backhands you across the face so hard your ears ring you drop to the ground in an undignified heap. Scrambling out of reach, you try and catch your breath and think up some kind of strategy, but a soundscape of Dirk’s tired groans is hardly improving your concentration. All of this is bizarre, of course, but you’ve never seen Dirk quite like _this_ before. His head is lolling, drowsy with fatigue, and he seems barely conscious of the sliding vines that are still eagerly feeling him up. He does twitch every time it pulses the tentacles still buried inside him, though. You’re sure that Dirk must be completely wrung out (you certainly would be!), his body over-sensitive and tired of having vegetation shoved up its ass.

He shivers as the plant withdraws the tendril that was seated inside his dick, and you try not to watch as Dirk splatters the leaves with another tiny handful of spunk. It has to be the last drop left in him. As impressive a specimen as Dirk is, he’s still human, after all. You have to get him out before this damn plant milks him dry. Unfortunately, your technique with the katana is as weak as Dirk is right now. Luckily, somehow, he still seems to be strong enough to offer combat advice.

“You gotta grip it hard with both hands, English. It's all in the wrists.”

You jump backward as a tentacle almost gets your leg, and wonder how in god’s name Dirk can be coherent at a time like this. His voice sounds nothing like it did before, when he was gasping out your name with his eyes fixed hazily on yours (boy howdy, your face flushes just at the memory of it). Now, it sounds sure and steady. When a tingly, staticky sensation grips the top of your bare arm, dragging you out of the plant’s reach, you realize why.

Brain Ghost Dirk is standing behind you, dressed the way you remember from the game. Real Dirk hasn’t worn the poofy asshole pants since you touched down on Earth, but this versions legs look as nice in them as you remember. You swallow hard, trying to ignore the fact that you can see foliage through his carefully blank expression.

“You?” you stammer, “How in blue blazes are you here? I thought Dirk’s splinters got...sort of...flim-flammed back together when we stepped through that big house-door thingumajig?”

Brain ghost Dirk’s mouth twitches. The (brain) ghost of a smile, maybe?

“Why don’t you tell me?” He asks, head tilted to one side.

“I don’t flipping know! If you’re going to be here you could at least be helpful about it! I don’t have time to play ‘guess what machinations Dirk Strider is constructing behind his stupid fucking pretentious eyewear’!”

“No need to bite my head off, Jake. The situation’s nowhere near dire enough for that,” He gives the joke a split-second to settle in, of course he does, before motioning at Dirk. “Although it looks like somebody’s in need of a knight in shining armor. Or, at the very least, someone to pull the fucking tentacles out of his ass.”

He’s practically grinning by Dirk Strider standards, a tiny upward quirk of the mouth that you’d have to be trained to notice. It makes your face heat up even further, dadblast it, leaving you sitting on the forest floor looking like a cherry tomato.

“I’m trying, Dirk! I’m not just sitting on my moneymaker while that bally penis-fly-trap has it’s way with him!”

You’re getting hot under the collar, but you can hardly be expected to keep a clear head at a time like this! Brain ghost Dirk nods, and gives you an unexpected flash of a real smile.

“I know you are, man. You’ll get there, I’m pretty sure that pages traditionally graduate into knights eventually. Anyway, try not to worry about him too much, he’s probably having the time of his fucking life.”

“Um…”

You remember what he told you before, that he’s a part of your brain...that he only knows what you know. You’re not sure that’s even remotely true, but it does raise an interesting question.

“...is that Dirk’s opinion or, uh, _my_ opinion?”

“Yes,” comes the cryptic reply, and he doesn’t give you any time to ponder it. “Pick up the sword, bro, both hands this time. Once you’re done prunin’ you can ask him yourself.”

Brain Ghost Dirk is a weirdly efficient teacher, which makes you wonder just how much time you spent ogling him during all of those exciting skeleton fights. Apparently it was enough to give you a decent enough grounding in basic sword-work. With his help, you’re able to hack your way through every wicked tendril that tries to grab you. When Dirk (the real one) groans throatily, you realize the plant is running short on defences. One tentacle after another pulls slowly out of him, all of them turning their attention on you with worrying speed.

You get all of them. You might not be the fastest with the blade and have nowhere near the finesse that Dirk has, but the fundamentals of “apply sharp edge to the thing you want to cut” isn’t so hard after all. Maybe it’s the little nod that Brain Ghost Dirk gives you every time you sever a tentacle or the way he calmly corrects your technique, but having with you helps. Before you even know it, you’re standing panting amidst a tangle of dead tendrils, smeared from head to toe in blueish fluid. After the plant started thrashing in earnest, those damn things had sprayed like a firehose when you cut them, and quite a sight you must make now.

However bad you look, Dirk looks worse. He’s sprawled face-down on the ground, gasping for breath like a dying fish. The bright-red pollen staining his skin and hair makes him look like a zombie from a cheap horror flick. Although, in your experience of cheap horror flicks, the zombies usually have some clothes on.

“Nice work, English.” Brain Ghost Dirk’s voice is far-off and echoey, and when you look up he’s fading from sight, his thumb held aloft.

There’s no time to think about that, though, because Dirk is in dire need of some attention. Analyzing the workings of your own breadbasket can wait until he’s back in the safety of your room. You sprint toward him, only to stop short and wonder what exactly a gentleman explorer should do for a naked ex-boyfriend that just got tentaclefucked in the middle of a jungle. It’s quite the puzzler.

Dirk seems to have gotten his breath and at least some of his awareness back, because he’s conscious enough to groan and roll himself weakly onto his back. He seems awfully surprised to see you staring down at him.

“...Jake?”

“Um. Yes. Jake.” You feel like a complete ninnyhammer just eyeballing him like this. “Is there anything...anything I can do for you, old chap? Seems like you might need a little help.”

Having ascertained that you are, in fact, real, Dirk throws an arm across his face and rolls away from you with a drawn-out groan. You guess this situation is probably more embarrassing for him, but it’s pretty damned close. It’s hardly as if you’ve never seen him naked before, but, well. Not like this. Not after seeing him in such a compromising position.

Dirk clears his throat loudly.

“Pants.”

“Oh, um...absolutely.”

Some searching reveals the sodden jeans and underwear he was wearing, but they’re not in any fit state to be used right now. They’re slimy with a thick mixture of pollen and plant-blood. It drips gloopily on your boots when you lift them up to examine them. No, this won’t do. You sling them into your sylladex (hoping they won’t leave a stain somehow) and grab one of your emergency blankets instead. After falling in a hole and having to wait for hours in the rain for Brobot to find you, you always carry a few around with you. It never hurts to be prepared, after all. You stride back over to Dirk and thrust it toward him like a peace offering.

“The pants are a no-go I’m afraid, Strider, but I’ve got them and they’ll be right as rain once they’ve had a whirl through the wardrobifier. For now, though, this should be just the ticket, there’s a fleecy side and a foil-y side and...you can probably figure out which side to wrap yourself up in so I’m just going to shut my trap and turn around so you can, um, do that.”

Dirk laughs, a harsh, croaking sound after all of that...noise he’s been making. His throat must be painful.

“Dude. I know you saw all of that. Doesn’t seem much point in you turning around.”

He sounds worryingly flat, although it could just be fatigue. You hope it is. Lord knows, Dirk doesn't need another helping of psychological trauma. He already got the lion's share of your sessions dramas, for crying out loud.

“If it’s all the same to you,” you stammer, “I think I will. I mean, you didn’t exactly give me permission to look before, and I really only did it so I could try and get you out of there...I’m not going to treat you like some kind of peep show for my amusement, Dirk. You’re my friend, for chrissakes.”

You leave off the part where you mention that you know how that feels. Being mentally undressed by Jane was unpleasant enough, and Dirk doesn't even have the luxury of a godawful banana-hammock to store his dignity in.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, taking the blanket and watching with raised eyebrows as you rotate on the spot, “I appreciate the gesture, very gentlemanly. I guess I should stop underestimating how fucking good you, Jake English. And...thanks for the save, too. I’m not sure I could have handled much more.”

You smile to yourself. Whenever you get a compliment from Dirk, it makes you feel warm inside. Keeping your back turned is 100% worth it if it makes him say things like that.

“Shit.” The voice from behind you does not sound happy.

You risk turning back around, and find him wrapped from head to toe like a tinfoil burrito. It would be hilarious if he wasn’t frowning so hard.

“What is it, what’s wrong?”

“I don’t think I can get up. My legs...they won’t fucking behave.”

Dirk sounds like he’s disciplining a naughty child. His disobedient legs quiver when he tries to get them to take his weight, and you rush forward to catch him before he nose-dives into the ground. Even if he could get his arms out of his cocoon in time, you doubt they’d be any more supportive.

Suddenly you find yourself inches from his face, your arms wrapped around his torso. Neither of you seem to know what to do about it. An idea does spring to mind, but you don’t think Dirk is going to like it.

“I expect it’s just tiredness, after all of that, uh, activity. I’ve got you from here, don’t you worry. Alley oop!”

You hoist Dirk over your shoulder in a fireman’s lift, taking his weight easily. He struggles weakly, complaining that he doesn’t fucking need to be carried, he just needs to sit down for a minute and co-ordinate his limbs, but you ignore him. You saved him, after all. Right now you feel like you can do anything, and what you want to do is get him somewhere safe and warm and fix him up. He’ll thank you when he’s had a nice long shower, you’re sure of it.

When Dirk settles down, sighing heavily as he does so, you risk giving him a comforting pat on the thigh with your free hand.

“We’ll be back home in a jiffy, don’t you worry. Everything’s going to be just fine, I know it.”

He makes a “pfft” sound, which you choose to ignore.

“Only _you_ could conclude that “everything’s going to be just fine” after all of that bullshit, English.”

You can tell he believes you though. After all this time, you can read Dirk like a book, albeit a very thick book with a lot of complicated words. Maybe it's the adrenaline talking, but even if he doesn’t believe you, well, you believe enough for the both of you right now.

That should bloody well count for something, you think.


	4. Chapter 4

Jake’s arms have you, safe and sound, and you find yourself drifting. Your muscles are as limp as wet noodles, filled with the warm ache that comes after strenuous activity, and you’re not sure you could hold your head up if you tried. Tired doesn’t even begin to cover it. Being disconnected from your body like this gives your mind the opportunity to wander.

What would have happened if Jake hadn’t found you? Would you still be alive, or would that thing have strangled you by now? Or, fucking worse, would it have found a way to keep you alive like that indefinitely, until someone else found you, out of your mind from the strain of being abused for days. None of those options can compare to swaying on Jake’s shoulder, wrapped in a warm blanket and with a prime view of his glorious ass.

He saved you. Even after all the shit you put him through, even with a blade he could barely use, he managed to pull your ass out of the fire. If you weren’t already painfully in love with him, you certainly would be after watching him flail and swear to get you free. A part of you had thought it was a dream, just a hopeful fucking fantasy that Jake still cared enough to save you.

Fuck knows what you’re going to do now, though. You’re going to spend the rest of your life pining after him. A fitting punishment, perhaps, for giving in to the allure of being intoxicated out of your mind on plant pheromones and letting it fuck you senseless. As objectively unpleasant as it was, it was still nice not feeling like yourself for a while. No splinters to pick up the slack, nothing to distract you from the overwhelming sensation of being thoroughly used. Coming with a dick full of fire and bathing in pleasure afterward certainly sweetened the deal, even if you didn’t make the deal willingly.

You kind of wish you could stay like this, floating, detached from yourself. It feels better than it should.

Right now, your whole body feels different, not like the strung-taught sensation of being Dirk Strider at all. Your skin is tingly and a few sizes too small, and you feel hot all the way to your core. It’s not unpleasant, more like what you imagine a mild high would be like. Under different circumstances you might even call it nice. Calm, chill, relaxing even. There’s one unwelcome side effect, though. Even though most of you feels like jelly, one part is still rock hard.

Jake’s shoulder pressing up against your junk is just enough friction to keep you aware of it. He’s talking as he walks, a comforting blanket of noise that makes you feel guilty as fuck about your continued arousal. If Jake can feel your dick poking him in the shoulder, he certainly isn't saying anything about it.

“Well I can't say I haven't wondered what that devilplant would do if it got hold of someone, but this is a jolly fucking unfortunate way to find out! I feel just terrible for not warning you about it, I really never should have let you go off on your own.”

Jake hops effortlessly over a rotting log, and jostles you just so into the firm flesh of his shoulder. For a second or two you can't breathe.

“I mean I know you can look after yourself, of course you can, that metal loony of a robot was modelled after you, after all. But, no offense mate, the natural world is hardly your bosom buddy. For chrissakes Dirk, you ran a flipping mile the first time you saw a hornet.”

He bounds across a stream and you nearly lose your mind. You basically rutted against him when he stuck the landing, completely by accident. The heat that started in your chest has slowly been spreading everywhere; prickling at your scalp and sending your heart into overdrive. Even the slightest tensing of your muscles is out of the question, otherwise you’d probably be humping Jake’s shoulder into next week. As it is, you're stuck bouncing against him with each stride, the rub of the blanket against your dick gradually working you into a state of desperation.

“Jake…”

It's more of a sigh than anything else, and it's no surprise that he doesn’t hear you.

“I shouldn't have let you leave, I don't know why you bloody wanted to in the first place! I invited you here, wasn't that enough of a fucking clue I wanted you around? And OK, maybe I'm sort of a crummy host but I was trying at least!”

“Jake.”

“I was looking forward to hanging out again, but it just seemed so much like you didn't want to be here. I suppose I let that make me cross enough to let you go instead of saying something like a decent chap would have.”

“Jake!”

“Hmm, yes?”

“You're...uh,” how do you fucking phrase the fact that you're going to get to fourth base with his shoulder if you're not careful? “You're kinda...crushing my junk carrying me like this.”

It sounds ungrateful as fuck but Jake immediately puts you down, leans you gently up against a tree, so it's definitely worth it. You can barely breathe from how much you achingly, desperately want to touch yourself, but Jake doesn't need to know that.

“Shit, Dirk, you must not have been able to breathe properly either, you're not looking so good.”

“Ngh, yeah...I feel weird.”

Your dick is painfully hard, but your arms just won’t co-operate. Something was in the pollen or the weird plant lubricant to keep the plant’s prey from struggling, no doubt. You’re weaker than you’ve ever felt.

“Weird is a damned understatement, Dirk! You’re burning up!”

Jake’s hand is cool and comforting against your forehead and downright sinful when he lays his fingers on your neck to take your pulse. You’ve forgotten how fucking tender he can be sometimes. You lean into his touch, feel him run his thumb up to rest on your cheek. Even that gentle pressure sends fire running down your spine, summons the memories of Jake’s hands exploring you like you were the greatest adventure of all. Right now you’d give anything to feel that again.

“Dirk, your pulse is going bananas! You were fine a minute ago, what the almighty fuck happened? Let me get some cool air on you, wrapping you in tinfoil can’t be helping.”

You shake your head, try to dissuade him from unwrapping the blanket shielding him from the truth, but you can’t do anything to stop him. For the second time in a matter of hours, you’re naked in a forest with Jake English staring straight at you. You’re far gone enough that it only makes the arousal pounding through your veins even worse.

“Fuck,” you manage to gasp, as the cool air hits your cock. The breeze is suddenly your best friend in the entire world, curling around you the way you wish your hand would.

“Oh God, Dirk, I should have realized!” Jake nibbles thoughtfully on his lip. You want him to nibble thoughtfully on yours instead. “I should have mentioned, but, um, sometimes that plant...sort of...starts spreading pollen around the place like the fucking dickens, and I just sort of wandered over past it one day and...well let’s just say I had a...I spent quite some time...alone...in my room that afternoon.”

Jake clears his throat, and forces himself to look you in the eyes.

“I don’t suppose you can handle things yourself, can you? Looks to me like you can barely move.”

You shake your head again, harder this time. This can’t be happening. There is no way Jake is looking at your dick like it’s a puzzle to be solved.

“No, Jake...it’ll go away...on its own.”

That, of all things, is what sends a flush of colour across his cheeks.

“Ah. Well. The thing is. It kind of...won’t. Or, at least, I don’t think it will, I never actually resisted as long as this. I didn’t get faceful of pollen like you did either.”

You whine pathetically. Hell is real, and it’s the sensation of burning to death beneath the blowtorch of your own arousal without even being able to lay a finger on your dick.

“Look,” Jake says, his brow furrowing in determination, “I know we didn’t exactly leave things in the best place and this is about the worst time imaginable to talk about any kind of relationship business, but I really think it would be _best_ if...” He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he tugs at his collar. “...If you let me touch you.”

He breaks eye contact, suddenly very interested in the fact that his hands are twisting the hem of his t-shirt.

“I hope it wouldn’t be totally inappropriate and horrible for you, but you can hardly do it yourself and I can’t bear to watch you suffer like this.”

You don’t even have to think. Your body does the nodding for you, a tumble of breathless words falling out of your mouth without ever passing through your brain.

“God yes please yes.”

Jake’s blush spreads like a wildfire across his face. For a horrible second you think you’ve made a mistake, that you sounded too eager (although how could you not, under the circumstances?), but then Jake gives you his best determined expression and kneels down in front of you. He pauses for a moment, his hand halfway toward your dick, before drawing it away again and putting it up to his mouth.

“Jesus, dude, I’m sorry!” you say, terrified, because fuck your stupid mouth and its lack of self control. Jake’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“No, no, Dirk, don’t panic!” he replies, before spitting as daintily as he can into his palm.

You laugh then, a stupid little wheezing huff, because that’s so incredibly gross and practical at the same time. What a fucking gentleman.

“Alright, there’s no need to be an ass about it, Strider! I don’t exactly carry lubricant around all the time!”

He sticks his tongue out at you in frustration, but the tiny creases around his eyes give him away. You had something clever lined up to respond with, but Jake pushes it firmly out of your mind when he reaches forward and grabs your cock as if someone dared him to do it. He just kneels there, holding you in his hand, but that’s OK. Your eyes flutter closed, leaving you alone with the sensation. It feels incredible, cool and warm all at once. When he moves, sliding slowly up and down, you’re so fucking glad his spit is there to smooth things out. It’s like being struck by lightning, over and over, the way the sensation starts in your dick and travels outward to every nerve in your body.

“Fuck, fuck, Jake... feels so good, you’re so good,” you shouldn’t be rambling at him, don’t have the right to tell him stuff like that, although it’s the least inappropriate part of all this. Your ex-boyfriend is touching you with caresses of fiery ice and your mouth gives up all pretense of self control.

“Ah, god, I’ve fucking missed you so much, Jake, I can’t take much more, fuck.”

Jake says nothing, but you hear his sharp intake of breath. You squeeze your eyes shut tight, because this is all going to be over soon and you’d rather not orgasm while staring at his confused expression.

“Shit, I fucking..love you so much..ngh.”

The wave builds inside you as he speeds up, and you tip over the edge with a long, low moan. Riding it out takes a long, long time, your limbs quivering as you pant out Jake’s name a few more times, and when you finally open your eyes the world spins with sudden dizziness. You just had your brains fucked out, your mind informs you, and your partner didn’t even have a boner.

Jake is frowning at you again, that hurt little furrow between his eyebrows that you know so well. Your stomach is covered in more cum than you’ve ever produced before. You try not to notice how quickly he wipes his hand on his shorts.

So much for the afterglow.


	5. Chapter 5

“Well,” Jake mumbles, looking squarely at the ground, “that got a little more, um, involved than I anticipated. Let’s get you back home, and uh, into a nice hot shower.”

He swiftly wraps you back up in the blanket, which is now sticky with all kinds of fluids. Not being completely exposed is a relief but you’re coming down hard from your endorphin-and-pollen high and your landing is going to be hard and uncomfortable. Just like your fucking dick, which still hasn’t decided to rest.

You can’t look at him either. It’s not much better when Jake reaches down and hoists you back onto his shoulder. The mess coating the blanket is unpleasantly slimy against your skin. Even so, speaking to Jake’s lower back is easier than looking him in the eye.

“Sorry.”

Your apology is barely above a whisper, but you know he heard it. The silence that follows seems to stretch on forever. It’s your own private slice of hell in the middle of paradise.

Jake is the one to break it. His sigh is heavy, like you imagine your limp carcass to be.

“Dirk, it’s fine...don’t start beating yourself senseless over it. It’s not like you meant it, you were half out of your mind.” He sounds wistful, tired.

He’s giving you an out, but you force yourself not to take it. Every fucking word was true, after all.

“I meant it,” you say, waiting to see if his steps falter. They don’t, but Jake’s back muscles go taut beneath your cheek. You take a deep breath and try to dig your way out of the grave you’ve made for yourself.

“I don’t mean I...fuck, I don’t mean I _want_ anything from you. It’ll go away, eventually.”

You take a gulp of air, try to keep the wobble out of your voice. You’re lying through your teeth, but if it’ll stop Jake from sending you away, cutting you out, you don’t care. You’re gonna be in love with this kid for the rest of your fucking life, but you’ll keep it locked up tight if that’s what he wants. That shit is never going to see the light of day.

“You’re my best friend, dude,” you continue, “I’m not gonna let an idiotic teenage crush ruin everything.”

“Dirk, it’s OK.”

Jake sounds so calm, like he knew this was coming.

“What?”

“It’s not as if it’s new information, to be honest. I already _knew_ you loved me, it was pretty danged obvious, even to me...and I hoped you hadn’t just taken all of those feelings out behind the woodshed when we went careening off the motherfucking trolley, but it’s not like we ever talked about any of it. And I don’t think now is the best time, really. I mean, I’d rather wait until you can go five minutes without desperately needing to rub one out, if it’s all the same.”

The grin in his voice makes your heart grow three sizes.

“And, I do love you. I love Jane and Roxy too, although not quite in the same way. I can’t imagine I’d be alive right now if it wasn’t for the three of you. I don’t want to imagine a future without any of you in it. You most of all, Strider. You’re pretty fucking special to me, even if you’re a bloody idiot sometimes.”

There’s moisture running up the sides of your forehead, warm and embarrassing, so you press your face further into his back.

“Thanks,” you mutter, your faceful of t-shirt reducing the word to a mumbly blur, “thought I’d really done an acrobatic fucking pirouette off the broship handle for a moment there. 9.0’s from every single judge.”

Jake laughs properly and everything feels better. Even the light shining through the leaves seems brighter when Jake is happy; just another one of those things that make you want to be near him all the goddamn time. Your dick is getting very interested in the surge of warmth singing through you after hearing him laugh, but for now you can ignore it.

“More like an 8.5 from me. Let’s just forget about relationship-y stuff for now, put it up on a nice high shelf and stick the stepladder in a dark closet.”

“Lock the door and throw away the key?”

“I wouldn’t go that far. I’ll hold on to the key. We can open that can of worms together, later, if you’ll permit me to horribly maim another metaphor. And all of this business - today, I mean - can just be outside of that stuff, if that makes sense?”

You pause and start running over what he just said in your mind, mining it for inconsistencies and doubt. Looking for places where Jake might be humouring you. It comes back clean, but that might just be your reduced awareness of current events. You’ll take it.

“So you really didn’t mind, uh…”

“No, Dirk, of course not. It’s not like we haven’t done it before, and I always enjoyed that side of things a lot more than you gave me credit for. I can cope with a little affectionate touching between chums without it having to be a whole kettle of fish. Besides, I’ve missed seeing you like that and I’ll be damned if I don’t have a certain fondness for how incoherent it makes you. Admittedly, not usually _that_ incoherent.”

This is all starting to sound a little too good to be true. You wonder whether Jake inhaled some of the plant’s pollen during his daring rescue. You want to know more about his “certain fondness” for you, but your thought process is interrupted before you can finalize what you’re going to say.

“Ah, here we are. Time to get ourselves cleaned up, I reckon! I don’t know about you but I feel absolutely filthy.”

“You. _You_ feel filthy. How fucking terrible for you, English.”

Jake chuckles as he plops you down on his bed. You give your limbs an experimental stretch inside your cocoon while starts rooting around in his sylladex. You can move a little, or at least more than the finger-and-toe wiggles that were your limit before. Enough to push yourself up on your elbows to try and figure out what Jake is up to.

“Nope, no good, no good at all...Oh! This’ll do nicely!”

You raise an eyebrow at him. Jake is brandishing a wobbly-looking folding camping stool triumphantly, and you’re not sure you like where this is going.

“I can stand up, dude. I don’t need that.”

“OK, go on then,” he retorts, folding his arms. “Put your money where your mouth is, Strider.”

You could try, you know that, but all it’d get you is a slap in the face from Jake’s floor. There doesn’t seem much point in adding injury to insult. Even so, your pride isn’t gonna go down without a fight.

“Fine, give me the stool and I’ll use it in the shower, if it’ll make you feel better. Just as a precaution.”

Jake shakes his head. You were afraid of that.

“What kind of idiot do you take me for, Dirk? You might fall and hit your head! You’re about as coordinated as a baby deer at the moment, bro.”

“If I do, I will drown in two inches of water and then come back as someone who can kick your ass.”

“Blimey, you’re touchy today. It’s just so darned different from how you normally are, what with the impenetrable badass field you project.”

Jake smirks as you try to stand up, getting as far as leaning against the bed with your wobbly legs propping you up. Mind over matter is all well and good, but your mind is only so powerful. You clutch the blanket to your chest. Even though it’s covered in all kinds of shit, it’s still your dignity’s only shield, and your body is still hot-cold and tingly with the aftereffects of the plant lubricant.

“See,” you say, “I’m fine. No assistance required.”

“OK, you’re fine, I admit it. This was all just a ploy to get you to keep me company in the shower. I’ll be dreadfully lonely without you.”

Jake winks and pulls his shirt over his head, and you forget what you were going to say. He’s always been the only person who could leave you speechless. His shorts follow, and then he belatedly remembers his boots. Those take a few seconds of awkward one-footed hopping to get off, and then it’s just Jake, in his underwear. He wears those stupid briefs that look like oversized boys’ underwear, but he still manages to make them look good somehow. Anything looks good on Jake, as far as you're concerned. Nothing looks best of all.

He’s smiling nervously at you, probably afraid that he’s pushing some sort of boundary you’re uncomfortable with. The blush from before has spread all the way down to his chest. Your eyebrows must have gone through the roof, because he snorts at your expression.

Your heart-rate is climbing again, your dick pulsing with interest and it’s not just because of the pollen. Jake wants to accompany you into the shower, where everything is going to be hot and wet and naked. Even if he’s intending to just get you clean it would be a relief. Something in his eye suggests he might have other plans, however. You can only hope.

“OK, I’m sold. You want to pamper the shit out of me, go for it. I’m expecting a full service, though. Gotta wash behind my ears and between my toes.”

“I’ll leave that to you, if that’s all the same. I was going to focus on getting all of that shit out of your precious hair.”

Jake gets his shoulder under your arm and supports your shaking steps to the bathroom. Dragging the blanket along with you seems pointless after the cold air gets between it and your skin, so you let it drop. You don’t look to see if Jake is looking at you. At the moment you’re not exactly looking your best.

His shower is a wet-room that cleans itself with some kind of snazzy future-tech. There’s plenty of room for Jake to set up the little stool underneath the showerhead and lower you down onto it.

“AAH, FUCK,” you shriek, biting down hard on your lip. This thing was not designed to be kind to your ass.

“Shitting fucksticks, what’s wrong!?”

Jake’s face fills with worry, but you wave his concerned hands away.

“M’fine, just...tender, that’s all.”

“Oh.”

Jake busies himself with the shower controls. The back of his neck is as red as your face is right now, and there’s something seriously wrong with how aroused you are. Jake is just...right there, in your face, acres of coffee coloured skin that smells of sweat and dude and jungle. He’s so goddamned attractive, it’s not fair. You would have loved him anyway after a lifetime spent talking over text, but the fact that he looks like this is just cruel. The water comes on with a splutter and a groan of pipework, a chilly waterfall that overwhelms all of your senses.

“Aagh, sorry about that, it’ll warm up in a minute...the old boiler isn’t what she used to be.”

You sit and he stands beneath the water as it slowly heats to a comfortable temperature. The hot water on your skin is so fucking good after all of this, you almost want to reach for yourself again and start working your way to climax again. The imperative is there in the throbbing head of your dick, but the feverish desperation hasn’t set in yet. For now, you just want to enjoy the all-over massage from the spray, a torrent of warmth that fills you from head to toe. You shiver when Jake runs a big, calloused hand through your hair. It’s full of gunk, disgusting, but his hand moves smoothly through it as the water washes it away.

He’s too good, too good for you. Too good for this world. How did you ever get so lucky as to have Jake English want to touch you. You close your eyes as he squirts shampoo into one hand and rolls your head back with the other. Jake massages it into your head roughly, like he’s trying to scrub you with his hands. It sends tingles down your spine.

“Mmm,” the little noise slips out of your nose before you can stop it. You feel good, so good. Better than you have in months.

“I’ll take that as a good review,” Jake says. You can’t open your eyes under the torrent, but he sounded amused.

“Five stars,” you murmur, “would be shampooed by again.”

Your tongue is loosening again, and that’s not a great sign. Maybe the warmth in your stomach isn’t coming from the shower after all. When he’s finished with your hair, Jake stops touching you. You manage not to whine about it.

“I’m just going to get this plant crud off of me and then I’ll get you sorted...um...”

Jake hesitates with his thumbs hooked under the waistband of his soaking wet briefs before taking a deep breath and pulling them down. Now that you’re both naked, you feel a little better. You also feel like you might die if someone doesn’t pay some attention to your dick. Reaching for your cock gets you nowhere, though, because Jake grabs your wrist to stop you. He looks surprised at himself.

“We… that is to say, _you_ , should get clean first. I can, uh, help you with that...if you want…”

You swallow. This is different from last time. There’s something hazy in Jake’s eyes, and you want to chase it down before it slips away.

“Sure...I mean...yeah. Fuck, as if I’m gonna say no to that.”

Jake grabs a sponge and starts scrubbing himself hurriedly, scraping the dirt off his skin. You’re fuckin' mesmerised by the way his muscles move under his skin. He’s not ripped, far from it, but he’s toned. Defined. Gorgeous. Even watching him scrub his feet is hot. There’s no way that should be hot. You’re going under again, giving yourself over to the rising heat, but this time it feels really fucking good. The only negative is that you’re apparently even more turned on by the fact Jake told you not to touch yourself. It’s torture.

When he turns to face you, Jake is looking more than a little hot and bothered himself. He’s also halfway hard and dripping wet. You follow the little trails of water as they run down his abs, getting lost in the sight of him.

“My eyes are up here, Dirk.”

You tilt your head up and try to remember why you’re in the shower in the first place. You’re still covered in a foul combination of gunk and spunk and it needs to go. Jake is surveying the damage, raking his eyes over you. It’s a good sign that he’s already half hard.

“Yeah, they are, and your dick is down there. How am I meant to focus when I’ve got a front row seat to the Jake English experience in IMAX 3D.”

“Oh, hush. You look like an extra from a cheap horror flick.”

“Your favourite kind, you mean?”

He grins at you. “Absolutely.”

Everything is warm and Jake is looking at you with that _look_ in his eyes again. You want to hide away and bask in it all at once. He’s so hot it’s killing you, perfect god and nervous boy all in one devilishly handsome package. After a couple of seconds Jake clears his throat, straightens his face. He raises the sponge and you go to grab it, because you don’t actually want him to wash you like a fucking baby. When you get ahold of it, though, you’re not strong enough to pull it out of his hand.

“Jake, give it up. You don’t need to give me a fucking spongebath.”

“No, stop messing around. I want to do this! Why won’t you ever let anyone take care of you, you giant ass!?”

That was harsher than he intended, you can see it written on his face.

“Sorry,” he continues, gently extracting the sponge from your hand, “you’re just always so darned independent, like you know what’s best all the bleeding time! You’re so smart and so competent and nothing could ever go wrong when Dirk Strider is in charge! Well, you got yourself into this mess, didn’t you? The least you can do is let me help you out of it.”

It’s a lot to take in. You try and force the implications of what Jake just said through the cotton-candy fog filling your brain. All you can manage to process is that you pissed him off. You relent, let him handle you, submit to him carefully rubbing at places where various substances have dried on your skin. He’s careful, like you’re made of glass.

“No, I’m the one who should be sorry, dude.” You say, after a long period of silence, “I didn’t mean to upset you. Don’t ever want to upset you. I’m not _competent_ and I don’t know shit, and literally everything I touch turns into a fucking disaster. _I’m_ a disaster. How do you not see that, Jake?”

Jake stops rubbing circles into your chest and looks at you like you just slapped him.

“What? What are you talking about? You saved all of us, you can’t possibly believe that about yourself.”

You can’t meet his gaze. He doesn’t wait for you to say anything. Jake drops to his knees and wraps his arms around you, pulling you close to him and pressing his face into your chest. You hold him as tightly as you can in return. It’s been so long, so fucking long since you were in a position to hold him.

“Dirk Strider, you’re not a _disaster_ , you idiot. You’re my best friend.” He pulls back so he can look at you, his giant green eyes staring into your soul. There’s water beading on his eyelashes. He’s so perfect.

“Can...can I kiss you?” he asks, so quietly you almost miss it.

He doesn’t need to ask twice. You crash into his mouth, all of your inhibitions stripped away by the fever running through your veins. He breathes you in, pushes his tongue into your mouth. Moans quietly when you bite his lip. You’re his, you’ve always been his.

Kissing him feels like coming home.


	6. Chapter 6

Dirk melts in your arms, every muscle shaking as the tension in them unravels. He’s feverish again, hot under the even hotter spray of water, but that doesn't stop you from pressing as much skin as possible into contact with his. It’s been, what? Weeks since you exchanged more than a brief uncomfortable greeting with him, months since you actually felt connected to him. This stupid genius boy who used to be your lifeline never even considered that you might want to talk to him, that when you said you needed space you didn't mean you wanted him to go away forever. That you might want to work out exactly what you are to each other, _together_ this time.

He grips you like he’ll drown if you let go, makes muffled little noises as your mouth devours his. Jerks a little when your chest brushes against his dick. This is a different Dirk to the one you invited here, a Dirk with every emotion laid bare by the effects of the pollen he's inhaled. You can see why he holds most of it back; the sheer force of his feeling is overwhelming, intoxicating. It's what scared you off the first time when he let it show through the cracks in his facade.

Now, though, after the end of a universe and the birth of a new one, after spending months with a Dirk-shaped hole in your life, after lying awake at night with your heart in pieces, you think you might be able to handle it. Maybe. Or, when you can't, you at least think you know how to talk to him about it.

Dirk’s breath catches in his throat as you run your hands down his back, feeling the lines of old scars beneath your fingertips. His hips are rolling forward of their own accord, trying to get some friction against your stomach, but the angle and the stool and your aching knees are all wrong. All he's managing to do is brush the head of his cock against your abs.

You pull back for a second and survey the panting mess laid out before you. Dirk is ruined, his chest rising and falling in sharp little gasps, his long legs stretched out either side of your hips. His eyes have a faraway look in them, nothing but lust and heat and longing, and some part of your brain starts to question the ethics of humping a naked, drugged-up boy who loves you more than life itself. Surely that’s taking advantage? The dashing heroes in your movies would never dream of making love to a woman who was under the influence.

“Jake,” he breathes, reaching for you, “what gives?”

You grasp his wrists, hold him still. It feels awful to puncture his enthusiasm, but what kind of a gentleman would you be if you didn't make sure this was what he really wanted.

“Dirk, are you sure about this? You seem awfully doolally and I just want to check you're playing with a full deck before anything, um, happens.”

He frowns. You get the feeling that you harshed his mellow somewhat.

“Dude. What do you want me to do? Recite the alphabet backwards or something? I am stone cold sober aside from the fact that my dick is going to murder me if _someone_ doesn't touch it soon. Why?” he asks, looking away. “Did you not want to…”

“No no no, that's not it at all!” you stammer, reaching for his face and tilting so you can look him in the eye. “I just worry that you might, well, regret things tomorrow.”

“Jake, there is nothing regretful about any of this. I fucking want you, need you so much and I never stopped, and if it makes you feel any better I'll do the stupid alphabet thing.”

Dirk takes a deep breath and continues in a loud deadpan voice.

“Z, Y, X, _Will_ , V, _U_ , _Please_ , _Touch_ , O, N, _Me_ …”

You snort. Even when he's in pieces he's still more together than he has any right to be.

“You incorrigible show-off, Strider! You really never pass up an opportunity to showboat, do you? I hope you know you got P and T the wrong way around.”

“I know, but the alphabet is just gonna have to make some sacrifices for us, bro. How else are we gonna put ‘U’ and ‘I’ togethemmmph.”

That does it. This is clearly Dirk Strider, even if the pollen has put him in a silly, happy mood. Dirk has always been ridiculous, but you don't think you've ever seen him be * _silly*_ before. It's less a turn-on than an irritation right now, but in other circumstances it could be downright charming. Your...Dirk is a huge dork after all. In any case, the best way to shut him up has always been the most fun.

His mouth is hot and hungry but it's not enough. You want all of him, and you want it now.

“Can you stand?” you ask, breathing heavily into his neck.

“Definitely,” he replies, but when you get to your feet and pull him up his legs are still shaky. Dirk Strider is a dirty rotten liar.

“Hold on to me,” you order, and Dirk complies like lightning, looping his arms around your shoulders so you can take his weight. He's the taller one, so you get a glorious faceful of his neck. Your own hands grip him tightly, hold him safe and secure, soothe the taut energy out of him. His dick presses hard into yours, your tip against his shaft thanks to those Strider legs that go on forever. Slick from the water, you slide together for a minute and feel him lose himself in the sensation. He gasps when you bite his neck to bring him back to you - not hard, of course, since there are bruises blooming there where the plant had him in its grip.

“Shit, Jake...you can do that...anytime you want...ahfuck.”

He's already breathless, his heart beating like a hummingbird in the cage of his chest, but it's still not enough for you. You grip Dirk's narrow hips and push him gently toward the wall, until he's sandwiched between the cool tiles and your chest. Your hands find their way to his wet hair as you kiss him hard enough to push his head back into the wall. Tugging on it makes him groan into your mouth. He snaps his hips against you, begging with his body. His movements are uncoordinated and weak, but you can make up for that.

One of your hands is occupied with keeping Dirk upright, looped behind the small of his back to hold him steady, but the other one is free to give your bro a helping hand. You slide it between you, thumbing the sharp line of his hipbone as you do, and take hold of his dick. Dirk's whole body stutters. He gasps for air and you let him breathe, releasing his mouth in favour some serious sloppy makeouts with his neck. He smells so good, like your shampoo and wet skin.

“Fuck, fuck...ah...don’t stop,” Dirk’s voice is raspy, urgent.

You grin into his neck and roll his foreskin up over the head of his dick. He whines into his teeth, trying to keep back a tide of words, no doubt. You’re surprised when Dirk lets go of your neck, sliding down the wall a little as his legs fight to take his weight.

“What are you-”

Dirk strokes you from balls to tip, his thumb tracing the line of your dick, and you damn near hump him into the wall. His grip is light but it’s enough. Under the circumstances it’s exactly what you need to stop you from jumping the gun.

“Holy Toledo, Dirk!”

It’s a relief that Dirk is completely discombobulated, because you know he’d laugh at you for that. You make sure he doesn’t get the chance, though. Increasing the pace makes him groan like he’s dying. You let go of his dick for a second and capture both of you in your hand, wrapping it around his fist. The feeling of his skin sliding against yours is electric.

“Dirk, mhhn, you feel just perfect.”

Dirk squirms, almost trying to back into the wall, and you feel his cock jump in your hand. He buries his face in your neck so he doesn’t have to look at you. Compliments are just too much for him right now, you guess. You work both of you with long, steady strokes, concentrating on the sounds leaking out between his clenched teeth. He’s over the edge before you even get close, rocking against you with a sharp cry. Warm semen hits you in the chest; it’s far more enjoyable than you’d imagined it would be.

For once Dirk is speechless. He grips your shoulders again, hanging loose-limbed and breathless between your legs. Although it pains you to do so, you let go of your cock in favour of making sure he doesn’t collapse onto the shower tiles. The two of you stand there under the running water and let the world pass by. It’s exactly what you needed; some time with no talking, no thinking, just you and Dirk.

It’s been the longest shower you’ve ever taken, but now it’s time for it to end.

“Will it hurt if I carry you?” you ask.

“You didn’t…”

“No, but I’m not the one with a raging fuckfever, am I? I’ll be fine.”

“That is...a fair point. Should be fine. I mean, you already carried me halfway across an island.”

You slide him along the wall so you can reach the shower control and turn it off. Scooping him up by his ass makes him suck air in through his teeth.

“Hold on tight, Dirk, we’ll be out of here in a jiffy.”

He clings to you as you carry him out of the bathroom, weave to avoid the filthy remains of your emergency blanket, and drop him gently onto the bed. He flops backward with an exhausted sigh. There are no clean towels anywhere (dadblast it, you were expecting guests, what made you forget to wash them?), so you grab the cleanest ones you can find. You wrap yourself up in it and throw the other one to Dirk. He thanks you quietly. Too quietly, maybe? It’s always so goshdarned difficult to tell with him. When you sit down next to him, you’re sure there’s something on his mind. What are you saying? Of course there is.

“Dirk, whatever it is you’re tying yourself in knots over, stop it. We’re both tired and I’d like to make out for a while and then go to sleep, if that’s OK with you.”

His eyes widen a little, but the edge of his lips tilt upward. A nice surprise, then.

“How do you do that? Just say what you want like it’s that easy.” Dirk looks away. You fix him with a glare.

“Because it _is_ that easy, isn’t it? Did any of that sound bad to you? If you don’t want to mack on me, just say so. I’m not going to flip my fucking lid over it.”

“Dude. That is not what I meant, and you know it. I just...can’t seem to do that. I’m not good at simple or direct, Jake, that’s not who I am.”

You’re mildly insulted at the insinuation that you’re “simple”, but you _are_ starting to see the benefit of being direct. Especially with Dirk.

“Get into bed, Strider. If you want to talk, we can do it in the morning. I just want to relax right now. You do know how to relax, don’t you?”

He nods.

You both climb in, clean and naked under the sheets. He holds you close, kisses you softly, nervously. Like he’s going to lose you. He’ll have to learn not to worry about that so much.

You extract yourself long enough to clap the lights off and imagine the eye-roll that just earned you. Clappers are the cat’s pyjamas, and Dirk is living a sad life if he believes otherwise. In the darkness, it’s just you and Dirk again, like it should be. Just like it always was when the rain came down hard on your orb or a monster was scratching at the walls. Dirk was always there for you. You come for him embarrassingly quickly, his hand working lazily as you feel him up in the dark; exploring and savouring and mapping his skin, his scars and calluses, the tender places he’ll have bruises tomorrow.

A hasty clean-up later (you’ve had tissues shoved under the bed since you were thirteen) and you begin drifting off, curled tightly around him.

Dirk’s camp-bed sits unused in the corner of the room. You can probably admit to yourself that he was never going to end up sleeping in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just an epilogue to go!


	7. Epilogue

Awareness trickles in slowly, filling your brain inch by inch, the way the sea laps higher and higher as the tides change. The first thing of note is that you have to piss like a racehorse. The second is that you can’t get up because Jake’s arm is slung over your chest, his pixellated Sweet Bro tattoo uncomfortably close to your face. The third is that you’re both naked.

That’s a big one, to be honest. You let it marinate for a bit, listening to him breathe. Feeling his warm skin on yours. You’re a piece of shit for enjoying it, for letting yourself wallow in his kindness. Memories of yesterday’s humiliation float to the surface, one by one, and the magnitude of what you did in the aftermath turns your stomach.

You manipulated him into fucking you. Again.

Suddenly you can’t breathe, Jake’s arm on your chest is a lead weight crushing your chest and you have to get out, have to abscond from this poor boy’s life before you ruin it all over again. You push his arm away, fight to get free of the covers, and flee to the bathroom. There’s no time to glance in the mirror as you hurtle toward the toilet and lose your...whatever your last meal was. It’s probably not important. You slump down on the floor, every muscle crying out in protest at your sudden movements. This has got to be the shittiest moment of a life that has included not one, but _two_ decapitations.

“Dirk? Is everything alright in there?”

Jake’s worry stabs at you, like a knife between the ribs. You resolve to tell him you’re fine, to act as though you’re fine, at least until you get back home and can let your guard down. That way, he won’t worry about your worthless ass.

“Fuckin’ peachy,” you croak. Not your most convincing performance.

Your meticulous plan falls apart when Jake wanders in, rubbing his eyes and wearing one of those short, thigh-length dressing-gowns you’ve only ever seen worn by people smoking cigarettes in old movies. He looks less like a seductive vision in satin, though, because Jake’s robe is green with a pattern of skulls on it. His eyes widen from sleepy to concerned when he sees you sitting curled up and naked on his bathroom floor.

“Oh, bloody hell, I thought I heard you being sick! Are you feeling any better, old chum?”

Jake squats down beside you, and you notice that he didn’t bother putting any underwear on either. He pats gently at your shoulder, like he’s not sure what to do with you. You know that feeling. Operation “pretend you’re OK” was over before it even started.

“To tell the truth, Jake, I feel like something turned me inside out and used my guts to wipe its ass.”

He winces at the imagery and then smiles. Fuck. You’ve missed that smile.

“Why don’t you come back and try to sleep some more, then? It’s still the middle of the flipping night as far as I’m concerned.”

“Nah,” you say, looking away. “I should bounce, I got places to go and people to alienate.”

Jake nods, and joins you in staring very hard at the floor tiles. The ones near the shower have pinkish stains where pollen has run down in between them. After a few moments of awkward silence, you lever yourself up off the floor and grab a towel to wrap yourself in. It’s time to get out of his hair. Maybe if you’re lucky he’ll never bring up what you made him do. Maybe that would actually be worse.

You’re surprised when you feel Jake’s hand gripping your arm, stopping you from leaving.

“Dirk, wait. Look, I’m not going to stop you if you _want_ to go, but I...I need to know why you’re so desperate to get out of here.”

“I just think it would be best,” you say, avoiding the piercing emerald gaze.

“Best? What on Earth does that mean?”

“For you, I guess. For me not to be here, not after...y’know. What I did.”

Jake frowns so hard his eyebrows almost meet. You want to shrivel up and die. Everything you fucking say just seems to make things worse.

“I’m sorry, I should just go,” you mutter, scanning the room for your clothes. They’re nowhere to be seen. Fuck.

“Dirk, what exactly do you think you did? I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re blathering on about."

If you can’t run, maybe you can hide. A scan of your sylladex reveals that your shades are absent, and you belatedly remember that they’re lying, encrusted in goo, in the middle of the fucking jungle. You just cannot catch a break today. You carefully adjust your expression to its iron-clad deadpan.

“Dirk?”

Jake is looking at you with hurt and anger in his eyes. You meet it with impassivity, but that only makes things worse. He pinches the bridge of his nose with the hand that’s not holding you in place.

“I can’t fucking believe you’re doing this, Dirk! This is really just more than a fellow can take, especially at this hour! I thought we were past the point where I’d have to look into your damned eyes and not see even a tiny hint as to what’s going on in that noggin of yours!”

You flinch. It’s not like Jake to shout, to get angry, to get frustrated like this. You must have really fucked up this time.

“If I’m such a problem, why don’t you just let me go?” you ask, hiding all of your emotion away where it can’t hurt him any further.

“Because I don’t want you to? Not yet, anyway! I just wanted to have a nice morning in bed and I have no idea why it’s turned into a barney between the two of us!”

“Because I fucked up, alright? I fucked everything up!”

It comes out louder than you intended, and suddenly you’re blinking back tears and trying to catch your breath while clutching at the shreds of your calm facade.

“I’m so confused.” Jake replies, and collapses onto his bed so that he’s sitting looking at the floor. “I don’t understand what you’re so worked up over, or what you think you’ve ruined or why...why the idea of spending a few moments with me in an intimate capacity has you running for the hills!”

Big, fat tears are rolling down his face, and if you had your sword right now you’d know how to use it. This has gone well and truly fucking pear-shaped. You sit down next to him and wrap your arms around him because that’s what people do when other people are crying. He lets you hold him, lets you press your face into his neck and run your fingers through his hair. It’s a wonder he doesn’t blister at your touch, something so pure being handled by someone like you.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur against his skin, just below the point where his neck and ear meet. You know he heard you, but instead of being comforted he shoves you away.

“What. Are. You. Sorry. _For_!?” he asks, in between gulps of air.

“I’m sorry for making you fuck me!” you blurt it out before you can stop yourself.

He sniffles and absent mindedly wipes his nose and eyes with the sleeve of his robe.

“Snggghh…What?”

“All of what happened last night, it was all my fault. I shouldn’t have let myself get caught, I shouldn’t have let you feel fucking sorry enough for me that you felt you had to...do that. That you felt pressured into all of that shit just to stop me feeling uncomfortable.”

You feel hollow without the words welling up inside you. You wonder if this is how murderers feel after they make a confession. The axe of Jake’s affections is poised above your neck, and you honestly think he’d be justified in cutting all ties with you.

Jake’s voice is low and dangerous when he replies.

“Do you think I’m stupid, Dirk?”

You look at him blankly. Wherever this is going, you don’t have a map. Jake just knocked you sideways off your path of reasoning and into uncharted territory.

“Do you think I can’t make my own flipping decisions? Are you so in love with hating yourself that you can’t imagine that anyone might _choose_ to be with you?”

“What, no!” you say, the words coming out choked.

“To which?”

“To any of it! I don’t think you’re stupid. Why the fuck would you even ask me that?”

Jake narrows his eyes, and you feel your face start to heat up.

“Because you’re treating me like I’m a few cards short of a deck, Strider. Like I can’t decide whether or not to give a pal a helping hand when he’s in need, or to have sex with that pal, or to bloody well choose whether or not I want to be _more_ than pals.”

“Jake, how could you want anything to do with me, after all of the shit I put you through?”

You gesture to a broken heap of metal in the corner, the remains of the deadly training robot you sent him when you were both thirteen. It creeps you the fuck out, seeing it in pieces when it looks so much like you. It’s a reminder of your missteps and overbearing need for control. It fucking hurts to look at.

“This is just the latest in a seemingly never-ending sequence of fuck-ups from the brain that decided to stick a version of itself inside a computer and torture it, the brain that engineered our first kiss with my severed head! Real fucking romantic, I’m sure it’s given you many fond nightmares! And to put the cherry on the colossal shitmuffin, I then go and get myself captured by a plant that wants to fuck me to death and force you to get me off in the aftermath. How could you not hate me for all of that?”

“It’s not up to you! I don’t have to hate you just because you think I should!” Jake yells, and you jump.

Your body reminds you that you still haven’t peed, and your stomach isn’t feeling too good either. Right now you’d trade it for brobot’s pile of scrap metal. Seems like it’d be more reliable.

“I’m sick to my back teeth of being told what to do all the time!! Go here, go there, fight these big green fuzzy ruffians! Wear your snazzy little drawers and keep your mouth shut! I’ve had enough!” Jake takes a deep breath and notices that your vision isn’t tracking him “...Dirk? Are you listening?”

You have no idea what Jake is talking about, but the bathroom is sounding pretty darn good right now. The room blurs again as you fly across it and start hacking up mouthfuls of bright red bile into the toilet. For a moment you think you’re dying, but then you remember. It’s the pollen. You must have swallowed quite a lot of it.

“Oh nuts, you’re really not well are you?”

Jake is standing in the doorway, twisting the tie of his robe in his hand. He looks so fucking cute you want to die.

“Nope.”

“Holy fucksticks, Dirk, I’m sorry. I sort of went rambling off about some things that had nothing to do with you back there.”

“S’OK. Don’t worry about it.”

“Please stop looking at me like I’ve given you a swift kick to the nadgers. I’m sorry I yelled, I just can’t take listening to you talk about yourself like that.”

You let the silence drag out, because for once you can’t think of anything to say.

“You do realize people love you, don’t you? Roxy, Jane...me...we all love you.”

Jake lowers himself to the floor beside you. He gently rubs your back, where the muscles ache like burning coals. You wish the thought of other people caring about you didn’t fill you with dread. If they care, you’ll only let them down.

“Come and get into bed, Dirk. You should rest,”

“Jake,” you say, looking him deep in the eyes. They widen in anticipation as you continue, your voice carefully level. “I’ve needed to pee like a motherfucker this entire time.”

He laughs; a big, snorting honk of a laugh that suits him down to the ground.

Jake leaves to let you relieve yourself, and it’s a fucking relief indeed. When you creep back out he’s waiting for you with a pair of your boxers (which you didn’t realize he still had) and a red face. He hands them over, and you shuffle them on underneath the towel. With your bodily functions taken care of you feel a little more human. Jake puts his hands on your shoulders and marches you toward the bed, and who are you to say no to him. You climb in, Jake perches awkwardly at the foot of the mattress.

He draws his knees up tightly, looking painfully like a normal, confused teen instead of the god you sometimes think of him as, outlined in holy light. He’s still beautiful though; the soft light from the globe’s high windows lights up the trail of freckles across his nose, picks out the places he’s been biting his lip.

“Please don’t tell me what I should or shouldn’t feel, Dirk. You’ve been my best friend for years and I don’t hold any of that stuff you said against you, most especially last night.”

He glances up at you, fixes you with his stare like a butterfly beneath a pin.

“I don’t understand how you can twist me asking to touch you, asking to kiss you...how you can think that any of that was me succumbing to some sort of dastardly trap of yours. I’ve thought about making love to you a lot over the years, and even more so since the shit hit the whirling device between us. I miss you, Dirk.”

Jake wrings his hands and looks away, embarrassed. “And besides, you were half out of your mind, for cripes sakes. If anyone should feel bad about taking advantage it should be me.”

“You didn’t,” you reply, “take advantage, I mean. Not a fucking bit of it. I remember every last detail, I wanted all of it.”

You fight the urge to blush, to simper like a fucking anime maiden when he smiles in response.

“There’s a lot we should probably hammer out, regarding us, I mean,” Jake says, “but I want to try. Try again, I should say. Would you be, um, amenable to that?”

Your heart does does backflips, and you think you might be sick again. It’s not from the pollen this time, though.

“Uh...yeah. I mean, if you’re sure then of course I would. You uh, know what I’m like though. Are you sure my general air of desperation isn’t a huge turn-off?”

Jake shrugs and gives you a boyish grin. “We can work on it.”

You’re about to shyly dance around asking Jake to join you in the bed when he stands up and stretches, showing off the pattern of guns all over his briefs when his robe’s hem lifts. Where in fuck’s name is he getting those things, you wonder.

“I’m going to go out for a bit to see whether I actually managed to kill that thing with your bloody letter-opener. I’ll keep an eye out for your shades, too. Sorry I left them behind, I was a little, uh, distracted.”

Shit, you must have looked fucking gross. You’re getting the sense that isn’t what Jake means, though. You were kind of naked...panting...moaning...it’s probably best not to think about it. If you’re lucky, though, Jake _will_ be thinking about it.

“Oh yeah?” you ask.

Jake nods, and starts fishing through the clothes all over his floor until he finds the outfit he’s looking for. Little black shorts, a grey waistcoat, that collared shirt with the bow-tie built into it. Holy shit. Maybe you do have a fever, after all. Bedrest is not something you’re usually down for, but you could make an exception for Jake.

“You could say I had quite an eyeful, yes.” He tugs on his boots and comes over to you, bending down to whisper into your ear.

“I very much enjoyed the show, Dirk. Maybe I can get an encore, if I ask nicely? I’m sure I could manage to grow a cutting of that thing.” His breath ghosts across your skin, and you want to pull him into bed with you right this second.

You swallow. Your boyfriend is turning out to have some surprising tastes.

“Could be an interesting experiment,” you reply, evenly. You’re doing a damn fine job of keeping up your poker face, if you do say so yourself.

“Good. I’ll be back later.”

Jake gives you an affectionate peck on the forehead and strolls over to where the stairs head down and out of the dome. This is a test, you know, to see whether you can let him go and not bother him with your constant need for attention. You’re going to ace it, although you can’t deny that you’re going to spend the rest of the time ‘til he gets back chatting to Roxy. She’ll pry the gossip out of you eventually anyway, might as well give it to her while it’s fresh.

“I’ll be here,” you reply, “...waiting for ya, darlin’.” You give him your best southern drawl, which sucks in comparison to Dave’s but still manages to make Jake go a little wobbly in the knees.

He flushes beetroot red and hurries down the stairs. You’re willing to bet he won’t be away for long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Thanks for reading and huge thanks to all who left comments or kudos, this got completely out of hand but in a good way, I think!"  
> \--Author!anon


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